


the particular glow of nirnroot at midnight

by atomicmuffin



Category: Elder Scrolls V: Skyrim
Genre: Alchemy, Canon-Typical Violence, Character Study, Crack, Crack Treated Seriously, Found Family, Friendship, Gen, Humor, Nerdiness, Nonbinary Character, Not Beta Read, POV Lydia
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-12
Updated: 2020-11-12
Packaged: 2021-03-10 00:01:45
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,381
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27525028
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/atomicmuffin/pseuds/atomicmuffin
Summary: "You have a very impressive muscular mass, sir Lydia," the Dragonborn muses. "Well proportioned too."Lydia blinks. Proventus Avenicci pinches his nose. Irileth clenches her fists, and admirably manages to restrain herself from stabbing the object of her annoyance. The Jarl coughs in his elbow, poorly masking his grin. Somewhere in the background, hidden deep inside his den as usual, Farengar is laughing harder than Lydia ever thought possible from him.The Dragonborn is a very strange individual indeed, and apparently is so on a regular basis. Lydia takes a moment to reconsider everything she assumed about Dragonborns, before she gives an answer to the person who's still looking intently at her biceps in the least sexualized way possible."Thank you," she evenly says. "I train every day."The Dragonborn hums. "Hypothetically, how many giant toes do you believe you can carry at once?"Or: the Dragonborn is into alchemy,reallyinto alchemy, and very much not into saving the world.
Relationships: Dovahkiin | Dragonborn & Lydia, Dovahkiin | Dragonborn & The Companions, Dovahkiin | Dragonborn & Whiterun Folk
Comments: 13
Kudos: 81





	the particular glow of nirnroot at midnight

**Author's Note:**

> Roughly a decade after skyrim's golden age, this fic was born out of nowhere because:
> 
> 1\. I played skyrim again after several years of not touching it, and holy shit that game is still so compelling
> 
> 2\. I realized my potion obsession would be so annoying to my companions if they were actual characters
> 
> 3\. It was fun writing crack and I need me some fun in those trying times
> 
> Unbetaed, I'll edit it later. Maybe. if anyone actually reads that self-indulgent fest lmao
> 
> Also my background for the Dragonborn is VERY SPECIFIC. Their past not specifically stated but there are hints in the text, if it amuses someone to try and guess XD

If there is a disease Lydia knows for certain she'll never catch in spite of her people's unfortunate disposition for it, it's heroism.

The infection runs rampant in Skyrim, and has done so for generations and generations. Children are easy targets to its appeal everywhere, but here in the North, they are actively encouraged _not_ to outgrow it. More than a quality, more than a vocation, in Nord culture heroism is a lifestyle.

Perhaps such pandemic shouldn't be surprising in a country where the life expectancy has always been very short. Between the freezing cold, the lack of resources, the large panel of wild beasts with more teeth and claws than should be allowed and the several attempts and eventual success at annexing their land, Nords often didn't get to live long enough to see their joints protest for their reckless warmongering years.

If one is to die young in any case, then they might as well put a meaning behind it, as futile as it may seem from an outsider's point of view.

Still, Lydia knows heroism will never manage to make its bed within her chest. At the place where the urge to become a legend is prone to grow, its natural enemy, cold, bland, inherently unheroic common sense has taken root already. It slipped within her after grief ate away the remnants of her childhood dreams, settled comfortably in the space between her head and her heart and has refused to vacate the premises ever since.

According to bards, who have the distinct advantage to be experts on heroism without being infected themselves, there is nothing that suits a legend more poorly than common sense. No one wants to hear about their hero making a tactical retreat and calling for reinforcement, or the gods forbid, actually running away from a fight.

A hero isn't practical. A hero cannot be practical, because they must be heroic instead.

No indeed, Lydia knows not of heroism, and it doesn't know her either. What she does know however, and what knows her from head to heart, is duty. It's her mother who introduced them to each other, before she even knew what common sense was. The three of them make quite the team, with duty dragging her toward danger, and common sense out of it.

In the end, one must prevail on the other. Practicality might have made its home in her heart, but it's duty who is carved inside the very marrow of her bones. It's duty keeping her back straight and her head high, her arms strong and her legs unyielding. It's duty who keeps her going, because as far as Lydia is aware common sense has never given anyone the motivation to live.

So when the jarl offers her the enviable position of housecarl for Whiterun's brand new thane, her common sense says no, hell no, absolutely not, not in a million years, and her sense of duty...

Her sense of duty says _yes_.

"It's an honor, my jarl." Lydia bows, back curved down, a fist pressed against the steel of her chestplate. "I shall serve my liege to the death."

Honor, serve and death are promises that Lydia, a creature of duty, is inclined to use in a painfully non-ironic manner. She's a woman of few words, but how uncompromising those she does use are.

"Excellent!" Jarl Balgruuf's voice carries through Dragonreach's Great Hall. "Your service to our guard has been nothing short of exemplary, lieutenant. We will miss you in our troops, but I have no doubt you'll keep making Whiterun proud and protect your thane with the skill and devotion you have shown us many times before."

The nord part of her that hasn't quite been snuffed by common sense yet perks up at that. Recognition of her commitment to the cause from a man she looks up to is admittedly very pleasant to hear. The rest of her is just wary of how he seems to feel the need to boost her moral by appealing to her work ethic.

"Protect? More like _babysit_ ," Irileth deadpans. "Lydia's talents are wasted on that fool."

The jarl's grin widens. There is a joke Lydia isn't yet privy to nested at the corner of his lips, cushioned with a tentative joy she hasn't seen in months.

"I'm glad that's settled." He blatantly ignores his housecarl's comment. "Unfortunately, the Dragonborn had an… _emergency_ to deal with that couldn't wait for your appointment. Something to do with torchbug mating season, I recall. They should return within a few days."

Lydia was not aware any matter related to torchbugs could call for emergencies. Her knowledge regarding Skyrim fauna that cannot be hunted is rather limited, so perhaps it is a common issue among more cultured people than herself.

"Curse them and their goddamn emergencies," Irileth snarls, distaste painted into her furrowed brows. To be fair, her brows are furrowed more often than not. Irileth has plenty of distaste to go around. "They stopped at _every single bush_ to pick up mountain flowers while we were running to fight a dragon. What kind of lunatic does that?"

"But they helped with the dragon, didn't they?" the jarl cheerfully points out.

"I didn't see them during the whole fight, right until the dragon died! They must have been hiding inside the tower like a coward. Even their hunter companion fought more than they did, and you're not making _him_ a thane."

"Perhaps, but there is only one Dragonborn, Irileth."

"And what a weirdo they are. You just think they're _funny_ , my thane." Irileth spits out like it's the worst insult possible.

The jarl remains unmoved. Clearly this is not the first time the two of them have had this argument. "My decision is irrevocable."

"Very well, my thane. If it suits you to give our best guard to a lunatic just because they can shout louder than us, we shall all comply," she says as she stroms out. "Come Lydia. Let's train. I need a work out after this."

Lydia ends up waiting four days for her new master's return. She doesn't mind much, unlike Irileth whose tolerance ran dry from day one. If there is one thing duty and practicality have in common, it's patience.

Eventually, a shadow creeps back in Dragonsreach, going unnoticed by anyone until they reach the jarl's throne.

"Welcome back, Dragonborn!" the jarl calls, barely containing his mirth. "I hope you found the torchbugs in good health."

Behind the table, Lydia almost chokes on her bread. In front of the throne, right under Lydia's line of sight, stands a figure of unknown gender or race, wrapped in dark leather, a cloak and a cowl, with no weapon in sight. Of their face, only their chin, the curve of their mouth and a faint glow under the hood can be seen.

She straightens on her seat, her spine as rigid as an arrow. So this the famous Dragonborn. Lydia cannot picture anyone who fits less the standards for hero material in Skyrim.

"They were in functional condition." The Dragonborn tilts their head to the side. Their voice is a misty, faraway thing instead of the powerful and overwhelming weapon Lydia imagined. "Before I took their thorax, that's it."

"Right, right," the Jarl waves his hand dismissively. "Allow me introduce you to your housecarl, Lydia. She's our former guard lieutenant, and has agreed to swear fealty to you."

The Dragonborn scrutinizes Lydia from head to toes as she stands up, their eyes gleaming unnervingly under the dark cowl. Lydia sets aside her unease, calmy meets her thane's glare and awaits for judgement. Eventually, they open their mouth to impart the conclusion of their intense reflection to Whiterun's finest.

"You have a very impressive muscular mass, sir Lydia," the Dragonborn muses. "Well proportioned too."

Lydia blinks. Proventus Avenicci pinches his nose. Irileth clenches her fists, and admirably manages to restrain herself from stabbing the object of her annoyance. The Jarl coughs in his elbow, poorly masking his grin. Somewhere in the background, hidden deep inside his den as usual, Farengar is laughing harder than Lydia ever thought possible from him.

The Dragonborn is a very strange individual indeed, and apparently is so on a regular basis. Lydia takes a moment to reconsider everything she assumed about Dragonborns, before she gives an answer to the person who's still looking intently at her biceps in the least sexualized way possible.

"Thank you," she evenly says. "I train every day."

The Dragonborn hums. "Hypothetically, how many giant toes do you believe you can carry at once?"

The jarl's composure breaks as he lets out a roar of sheer hilarity, while his steward makes a pained noise. Farengar genuinely sounds like he's about to die of laughter. Despite being at the center of the chaos, the Dragonborn keeps on staring at Lydia without flinching, as if the rest of the world had stopped existing.

Lydia takes upon herself to remain stoic. It would seem she is going to need plenty of stoicism in the future.

"I am afraid I cannot answer that question, my thane," she says. "I do not know how much a… giant toe weighs."

The Dragonborn brightens. "Oh well, it's roughly as big as-"

" _Housecarls_ ," Irileth hisses, "aren't _mules._ "

"Of course," they agree, sounding baffled by the interjection. "Mules can't help collect ingredients or pass over the alambic."

Lydia's first act as a housecarl ends up being the gentle but urgent relocalisation of her thane toward the exit before Irileth loses her cool completely and tassault their local dragon-slayer hero in public. They follow along without a word of protest, seemingly obvious to how close they have flirted with death today.

The Dragonborn, Lydia comes to realize with no amount of surprise, might be even more allergic to heroism than Lydia herself, equally allergic to common sense and as far as Lydia has seen, utterly uninterested by duty.

What, Lydia cannot help herself but wonder, are bards even going to make out of that?

.

To her astonishment, the Dragonborn appears to have made a positive reputation for themselves in town. The good folk of Whiterun, who'd rather cut off their own hand than allow a foreign in, say hello, wave or nod respectfully as the Dragonborn skips down the stairs. Even Heimskr allows himself a pause in the middle of his rant to acknowledge their presence. It's… unexpected, to say the least.

They are greeted like kings at the Bannered Inn, except for Mikael, who lets out a sob when they come in and rushes to hide behind a pillar.

"Would you like a mead, sir Lydia?" The Dragonborn says once they are seated at the best table, close to the fire and far away from Uthgerd the Unbroken. "I have come to understand it's the most popular beverage around here."

Implying that they are, in fact, not from 'around here' themselves. That's not surprising. The Dragonborn very looks like they come from elsewhere, though Lydia could not begin to speculate what that else might be. "I'd be honored to share a mead with you, my thane."

She's actually more of a bier kind of person herself but she sees no point in sharing that piece of information. Hulda delivers the chops in person, and eagerly accepts the Dragonborn's gold coin. She ignores Lydia's accusing glare with the ease of those who have years of experience at customer service under their belt.

No wonder the Dragonborn is so popular if they spend their gold so freely.

"Is something the matter?" the Dragonborn wonders as they push a bottle in Lydia's direction. Their hands are hidden under leathered gloves stained with several unknown substances.

Lydia is spared having to give an answer when someone else exposes the reasons for her unease.

"You paid too much. Again."

Lydia tenses at the newcomer's intrusion. Bosmer man in his prime years, wore out leather armor, bow on his back, knife by his hip, an expression of fond exasperation on his face, exhaustion clinging to his eyes. The Dragonborn doesn't outwardly react to the potential threat, so Lydia allows herself to relax to watch the discussion unfold.

"Ah," the Dragonborn says, sounding moderately remorseful. "I suppose you're right, mister Faendal. I forgot, my apologies."

"Don't apologize to me, it's your money you're wasting," Faendal sighs as he takes the Dragonborn's untouched mead and swallows a large gulp. Then, he looks at Lydia with what looked like a mix of amusement and compassion. "So you're this one's new keeper, right?"

Lydia's eyebrow raises. "I have been appointed as their Housecarl."

"Ah, good luck with that!" Faendal snorts. "I still can't believe the jarl thought it was a good idea to make _you_ a thane. I'm half convinced he gave you a title for shit and giggles."

Him and Irileth both. Jarl Balgruuf did seem to be having the time of his life when he threw her at the Dragonborn.

"I'm certain the jarl has his reasons," the Dragonborn dutifully says before adding in a mystified tone, "though I cannot fathom what those can possibly be."

"Maybe he's secretly an alchemy fanatic."

The Dragonborn perks up. "You think so?"

"No," Faendal deadpans, ignoring his companion's visible disappointment to turn toward Lydia.

"Speaking of, what are your opinions regarding alchemy?"

Lydia, admittedly, never paid much attention to the fine art of potion and poison crafting. She's aware it exists, the same way she's aware daedric princes exist: in a distant reality of her own that rarely happens to overlap. She could lie and pretend she's full of knowledge regarding the matter, but it would be dishonest and easily dismantlable in any case.

"Practically non-existent," she says, after a moment of consideration.

Faendal's laugh is tainted with the hysteria of those who have been through war experiences and will never quite be the same. "Oh, don't worry, you'll have plenty of occasion to form an opinion on the subject when you're off gallivanting in caverns to collect mushrooms, stopping every two minutes to pick up flowers and hunting down sabre cats to remove their goddam eyes out. Lots and lots of time to ponder about the wonders of alchemy, trust me."

Lydia's expression is the very embodiment of polite indifference. "I'm looking forward to it."

"To be fair, I don't hunt them down, they're the one attacking me, and it's not like they need their eyes once they're dead," the Dragonborn says. "The rest isn't inaccurate. Although I must say I never forced you to follow me, mister Faendal. I explicitly said you were free to return to Riverwood, multiple times."

"Yes, well, would you ever have reached Whiterun if I didn't come along?" Faendal eyes Lydia's mead enviously. "You kept getting sidetracked by flowers, mushrooms, or running the errands of literally anyone who talked to you. It's like you forgot about the dragon algother."

"I would have. Eventually. And I'm sure the jarl had found out about the dragon long before I got there," they say, before adding in a wistful tone. "It was quite big. Hard to miss, and equally hard to forget. Have you ever seen a dragon before, sir Lydia?"

"I have not. I was out of town to track down bandits when it attacked the north tower."

She did see the remains, afterwards. Giant white bones spread obscenely under the sky, right by the tower. It seemed unreal, out of this world. Not unlike the Dragonborn themselves.

"Dragons," Faendal mumbles, his eyes foggy. "Fucking dragons. They are even worse than those cursed Hagravens. Sorry, but I have to draw the line somewhere. I'll leave you with the misus' much more capable hands."

The Dragonborn reaches out to put a gloved hand on the bosmer's shoulder. "I understand. Thank you for your help. I wish you luck on your futur romantic entanglements."

And just like that, the tensed knot at their table eases. Faendal grins back when the Dragonborn takes back their hand. "Yeah, yeah, I know, lies are terrible starts for a healthy relationship, I'm not about to ever forget. I don't think I'll try my chances at _romantic entanglements_ any time soon."

"That's too bad. Miss Valerius and you seemed to have complementary temperaments. Though I'm still convinced you could have worked out something with-"

"How many times do I have to tell you, there is no unresolved sexual tension between that dumbass Sven and I! For the love of Mara, do not ever, _ever_ try to play matchmakers again."

"Duly noted," the Dragonborn chimes, but remains ignored by his… friend, for the lack of a better word.

"Don't let him play matchmaker, okay?" Faendal urgently says to Lydia. "Because the problem _will_ arise, trust me. I don't know how they do it but they just show up and people simply tell them about their woes and ask them to do whatever, and they never say no. It's a goddamn _nightmare_."

The Dragonborn shrugs. "I like helping out," they say, like it's the simplest thing in the world.

"A nightmare, I'm telling you. If I have to help some random guy find his family sword _one more time_ … Though I guess I'm done with that life now. Your problem now, ma'am."

Lydia nods in agreement, but she doubts Faendal sees it. He seems lost to his own musing. The Dragonborn reaches out for his arm once again, their touch light as feather, and Faendal shakes his head.

"Well then, I'll be on my way", the hunter says as he rises on his feet. "Be careful out there. You know where to find me if you need me."

The Dragonborn remains silent as his former companion disappears through the door. Lydia does the same. Under the hood, Lydia catches the glimpse of a wistful smile.

"Farewell, friend," the Dragonborn mutters. "Be well."

Lydia finishes her mead, and wonders if one day she'll be sent home the same way. She knows she won't. She has made an oath, and she intends to keep it. Her sense of duty won't allow anything short of life commitment.

Until death she'll go alongside this strange, strange soul.

.  
The first time her thane disappears in the middle of a fight, Lydia almost loses her mind out of sheer panic. One second they were right next to her, naked iron dagger out in hand, the smell of potions Lydia had come to associate with them strong in the air, and the next they were just… gone.

The Dragonborn had warned her in advance their combat methods were unorthodox, and Lydia ought not to mind them, but nothing could have prepared her for the terrifying reality of her ignorance of her charge's location and wellbeing. She keeps going nonetheless, shield by her left, sword on her right, a scream tucked inside her chest. A few breaths later, her opponent falls dead on the ground, a familiar blade buried inside their neck.

Her thane reappears inside her reality, the hem of their cloak stained with blood. They kneel to take back their dagger, swift as winter wind, and meet Lydia's frantic glare. She sees nothing but deep, unfathomable calm inside their eyes.

"Alright there, sir Lydia?"

It takes another breath for Lydia's mouth to realign with the rest of her. "I'm unharmed, my thane."

"Good," they say, before they skip to focus on what actually interests them, the mushrooms growing in the shadowed corners of the walls.

They both get back to work in silence. Lydia loots the bandits out of their poorly acquired coins while the Dragonborn enthusiastically collects imp stomps and hoards them inside the bottomless pockets of their cloak. Once the room has been properly cleaned up, they move on to the next, and the process starts anew until the fortress, cave or burial ground has been cleared of every coin and every potential potion material.

It happens again, and again, and again, until Lydia doesn't flinch anymore at her thane's sudden disappearance. Slowly, she learns how to spot the scent of poisons and potions amidst the overwhelming stench of blood and fire. Where the scent goes, death soon follows, and so does Lydia.

Her fellow Nords would no doubt spit at the Dragonborn's fighting skills. Hiding is for cowards, Lydia has been taught. True warriors face danger head front, with only their blade, shield and honor to complement their battlelust. True warriors use no cheap tricks, may it be spells, potion or treachery. True warriors are all about heroism and very little about common sense.

What kind of warrior would go to the battlefield with only an iron dagger and an endless supply of potions in their pockets? Even mages are better armed than that.

"For god's sake," Farengar groans as he crawls out of his room when comes morning. "Can't you _at least_ get a better knife than this… antiquity?"

Dragonreach slumbers still, the majority of its inhabitants still nested in the safety of their beds. The majority, but _not_ the Dragonborn and their housecarl, who have better things to do than sleep. Although, technically speaking, neither of them are inhabitants of the castle. They only crash in when the Dragonborn feels like using the castle's laboratory instead of someone else's.

And every time they do, Lydia has to promise she won't listen to any door, _especially_ the one in the basement. There is, according to them, an awful case of whispers infection within the depth of the castle she cannot approach at any cost. Lydia simply accepted their request as one of their many eccentricities, stored the information in the little corner of her mind she has dedicated to her thane, and vowed every time she was requested to not to listen to doors, _especially_ the one in the basement.

Other instructions include: not accepting drinks from strangers, not touching white round crystals of mysterious origin, not reply to talking dogs, not participate in unknown rituals, not fixing broken daggers because they might be broken for a _reason_ , not investigate abandoned houses, and never, _never_ open black books. The last one seemed even more important to the Dragonborn. If it were up to them, they would never read books at all.

You can never know what's inside a book until it's opened, they argue often, and then it might be too late to close it.

"I like my dagger," the Dragonborn says without bothing to look up from the alchemy lab. "Is there something wrong with it?"

It pains Lydia to agree with the steadily unpleasant court magician on anything, unfortunately he does have a point here. She understands that the Dragonborn favors smaller blades over swords, but surely a more elaborate knife would be more efficient, and consequently safer for the both of them.

"It's painfully plain, and it offends my sensibilities." Farengar stops mid-rant to give his meanest glare at Lydia. "Am I dreaming still or are you two buffons using my arcane enchanter as a _cutting board_?"

Belatedly, Lydia realizes blue dartwing juice has dripped inside the engraved runes. Her mistake. To be fair, it's not like there is another flat surface right next to the laboratory. It was only practical, and everyone knows how she feels about that. .

"We are very sorry, master Farengar," the Dragonborn takes upon themselves to be the diplomat of the team for once. Their remorseful tone is very convincing. Lydia could almost get fooled. "I'm very thankful for your generous offer to let me use your laboratory."

Farengar's generosity is as much a thing as Molag Bal's benevolence. Lydia is practically certain he only allowed the Dragonborn access to his place for the entertainment they kept on accidentally providing. Not so funny when the joke is on him, is it.

"Can't you go to Arcadia's?" His eyebrow twitches under his hood. "I'm sure she loves to babble about death bells' properties as much as you do. Not to mention that if she's busy fussing over _your_ fictive diseases, then she's less likely to nag at _me_."

The mere concept of anyone nagging at Farengar sounds bewildering to Lydia. It is true that their local botanist devotes a respectable amount of time worrying for the Dragonborn. She doesn't fail to comment every time they come inside her shop on how 'pale' they are despite never seeing much of their skin. Only a woman like that would bother to fret over Farengar's thriving health.

This man is so spiteful he'll bury them all for sure.

"Mistress Arcadia sleeps at night," the Dragonborn points out factually.

"And _I_ don't? Why are you even brewing at night? Don't you have, I don't know, bandits to murder? Kitties to rescue? Ancient ruins to desecrate? Whatever it is you simpletons do when reasonable people are sleeping," Farengar monologues to himself, for he certainly isn't talking to them. Here's a man that likes the sound of his own voice. "Oh, stop giving me that look, it's too early for this nonsense. And give me that knife. I can't stand the sight of it anymore."

Lydia immediately abandons her task to stand in front of her thane and loom over Farengar in a very threatening manner. She doesn't believe the mage would be foolish enough to attack the Dragonborn up front, but one is never too careful with one's thane's safety. From her experience, the Dragonborn does tend to bring out strange reactions out of people, for better or worse.

"Drop the knight act, musclehead." Farengar ticks his tongue like the massive prick he is. "Of course I'm not going to steal that worthless butter knife. I only mean to use my Arcane Enchanter the way it's intended too, to _enchant_ things."

The Dragonborn's hand nests itself by the crook of her elbow. Lydia feels their breath against her nape, cold and gentle. Something within her keeps on tensing and relaxing to a pattern of its own.

"What kind of enchantment, master Farengar?" The Dragonborn pips from behind Lydia's shoulder.

She doesn't need to turn to know their eyes are gleaming with curiosity.

Farengar struts like a peacock. "The very best, naturally."

.  
.

Of all the organizations, institutes, guilds and other affiliated gangs in Skyrim, Lydia never expected it would be the Companions who would make the first attempt to enrol the Dragonborn in their midst. Her bet would have been on the mage academy due the rampant nerdery their members have in common with the Dragonborn, or perhaps the thief guid, who were likely to appreciate the Dragonborn's...particular talents. Naturally, both the Stormcloaks and the Imperials would only be too happy to recruit the Dragonborn in their respective army, if only for the symbolism of their unique status.

But the _Companions_? There isn't a organisation in Skyrim that hasn't banked on heroism more than they have. They only respect those who can wave bigger axes around than them. A shadow with a knife doesn't fit their usual recruiting pattern, even dragonblooded ones.

Admittedly, it's hard for others to seek out the Dragonborn since they are perfectly content to roam around Whiterun to run errands and collect ingredients instead of paying attention to their Dragonborn duties, whatever those are. The Companions do have the advantage to reside in the same location the Dragonborn does, so maybe Lydia shouldn't be surprised they would try to ensnare a living legend in their glorified mercenary band sooner or later.

"Hey, you."

Lydia, her thane and Danica turn their head toward the stairs leading up to Jorrvaskr at the call. The Kynareth priestess has been singing the Dragonborn's praises for rescuing their tree when Aela decided to initiate contact, in a typical Aela fashion.

"Yes, you," Aela the Huntress frowns at the Dragonborn. "The giant's toes thief."

Lydia tenses at the accusation while Danica makes a tactical retreat toward her temple. As Lydia has grown to understand over the last months, it is entirely possible the Dragonborn _did_ steal giant's toes. Unfortunately, they have the habit of letting their hands wander when it suits them, and it took Lydia, a former city guard, an embarrassing amount of time to realize her thane's illegal proclivities.

To be fair, the Dragonborn never steal anything that would typically get targeted by burglars. Purses left them indifferent, jewelry didn't catch their fancy, expensive weapons remained safe and untouched inside their glass beds.

No, the Dragonborn doesn't steal what has value to the rest of them, they steal alchemy ingredients. Flowers, mushrooms, insects, animal parts, salts, those are the type of possessions that tend to disappear when the Dragonborn breezes by. The kind of cheap trinkets people don't usually pay attention to, and if they did, wouldn't assume had been stolen.

"Oh!" The Dragonborn brightens up after a long moment of thinking. "You are the huntress who took down the giant outside Whiterun! Pardon my poor memory, it only came back to me right now."

"Aela," one of their prospective recruits, an Imperial girl with a sword longer than her forearm, hisses to her senior, sounding mortified . "Aela, that's the _Dragonborn_."

"And?" Aela deadpans. "Still a giant's toes thief. They only showed up _after_ the fight to cut off our prey's toes. They didn't even try to help."

Lydia isn't so sure about that. If the Dragonborn did attempt to assist against the giant, Aela wouldn't have noticed at all, and the Dragonborn would accept accusations of cowardice without bothering to defend themselves.

"I didn't steal though," the Dragonborn muses. "If I recall correctly, your companion said I could take them. He did say I was pretty weird, but they concurred I would make better use of them than either you both or the giant."

"Goddamn, Farkas," Aela mutters. "No matter. You need to come with me. Kodlak wants to talk to you."

The dragonborn tilts their head to the side. "I'm afraid I'm unaware of who Kodlak is. Sir Lydia, do we know a Kodlak?"

Lydia, of course, knows who the chief of the Companion is. Everyone in Whiterun, everyone in Skyrim, and possibly many people in the whole Empire, know of Kodlak Whitemane, the Harbinger of Jorrvaskr. In truth, the Dragonborn most likely heard of him as well but didn't bother to keep the information in their mind.

Lydia herself grew up with stories of his battle feats. She used to admire him greatly, like every child in Whiterun did. In a remote way, she still does, even if the values he's the harbinger of doesn't appeal to her anymore.

She looks Aela dead in the eyes and says: "No, my thane."

It's clear Aela is not used to people telling her no. Her fingers twitch for her knife, a habit Lydia knows well. From a safe distance, the good folk of Whiterun spy on them in the most obvious way possible, waiting for two of the best warriors of town to fight to the death, as one does.

"Look at that," Aela eventually drawls out. "The dog bares its fangs for its master's sake, how cute."

"My thane's time is precious, huntress. And they are not yours to command. If you want something from them, you can ask, like everyone else."

The Dragonborn remains silent as they allow Lydia to speak her mind in their stead. They would have followed along if she hasn't interceded.

Faendal was right. They never say no to anyone, and it _is_ a nightmare.

"Fine." Aela says between gritted teeth. "Would you _please_ accept our invitation at Jorrvaskr for a meeting with our Harbinger, at the earliest convenience?"

The Dragonborn glances at Lydia, who has retreated back into her usual silent bodyguard persona. Their smile is as gentle and peaceful as a nirnroot's song. "I'll be delighted. Thank you for the invitation, madam huntress."

In the end, the Dragonborn doesn't so much choose to join the Companions as they are tricked into it through devious means Lydia would have never expected from the Harbinger. Straightforwardness and honour appears to be expendable standards when it comes to bait hero material among their rank.

"A daedra heart!" the Dragonborn coos, their eyes shining with the fervor of fireballs. "Right there, in the open. I can't believe master Kodlak is keeping it on a _plate_."

Lydia finds herself hoping they didn't try to steal it under the Companions' eyes. She takes a gulp of beer the old servant left for her. At the center of the table, the hearth fire cracks ominously. "That's great, my thane."

"He said he'd give it to me if I become a Companion. They are extremely rare, you know, Sir Lydia, especially in such good condition."

Cursed the old man and his extremely rare ingredients. If they weren't surrounded by a bunch of Companions and Companion prospects who are only waiting for an excuse to gang up on them, she might even say it out loud.

"I assumed so, my thane," she dutifully answers. "There aren't a lot of daedra running around here."

"Sure hope so." The friendlier half of the terrible twins shudders as they sit on the bench, next to the Dragonborn. It's quite a spectacle to watch this mountain of muscles and manliness shiver from anything but battlelust. "There _aren't_ going to be lots of daedra running around here anytime soon, right?"

The Dragonborn smiles. "Not that I know of, mister Farkas."

"Good. We leave at dawn tomorrow," Farkas says. Then, he adds as an afterthought: "If that's uh. Convenient for you."

The story of the confrontation with Aela has spread among the Companions already. Poor Farkas seems utterly lost by the very concept of asking politely.

"Where are we going, my thane?" Lydia asks.

"You're not going," Farkas says, like an idiot. "It's Companion's business."

Lydia answers to that nonsensical statement with a _look_. It gives better results than she expected. Farkas looks properly chastised as he tries to make himself as small as possible on his chair, without much success.

"Sorry," he grumbles to his mead. "Rules are rules."

"Where my thane goes," Lydia declares with a tone that leaves no room for negotiation, " _I_ go."

_Someone_ needs to keep the Dragonborn alive. Not really by protecting them from physical harm, they could do that well enough on their own, but to make sure they do remember sleep, food and water are essential to survival and that one cannot sustain on potions alone. Obviously Farkas would require more than a crash course on the fine art of Caring for and Protecting Your Thane before Lydia would entrust theirs with him.

Farkas blinks pleadingly in the new recruit's direction. The Dragonborn shrugs. "What Sir Lydia said. I rely completely on her judgement. I do realize this makes your job more complicated, mister Farkas, and I apologize for that. However, if Sir Lydia cannot compromise on that point, neither can I."

A deep, heavy silence falls over Jorrvaskr, the kind of unnatural quietness that has nothing to do in a place full of mighty warriors who rarely shuts up about anything. It fills the space where laughers, loud arguments and battle background noises should be, and it fills it with interests.

The Dragonborn taps their finger on the table, indifferent to the semi-hostile ambience. The sound carries through the room like a bang. "It's unfortunate, you all seem like very fine people, but I suppose I was not to become a Companion after all! Perhaps another time? Please do tell master Kodlak to keep that daedra heart for me, if it's not too much trouble."

They raise up and give a respectful bow. Lydia follows along wordlessly, as if attached to a string to her thane's will.

"Alright, alright. She can join too, right?" Farkas says. "I'll ask Kodlak-"

"No."

If Lydia thought the silence was deafening before, it was outward pleasant compared to the frost the Dragonborn's rebuttal unleashed. Lydia has never seen them like this: cold, unyielding, dangerous. Their eyes gleam under the hood like the particular glow of nirnroot at midnight.

In a softer tone, yet just as uncompromising, they add: "There are some things I'm not willing to sacrifice for the sake of daedra hearts, or lack thereof. You understand, I'm sure. Let's go, sir Lydia. I believe our business is done here. Thank you for your hospitality, please convey my most sincere apologies to master Kodlak, and have a good night."

They leave Jorrvaskr in silence. Lydia, pointedly, doesn't ask about anything. She keeps on very much not asking when the following morning finds them stalking the terrible twins as they reluctantly trekked the way to Dustman's Cairn. She doesn't ask either what the potion goo the Dragonborn urges her to cover herself under to hide their scent is made of, because it's better not to know those things sometimes.

However, she does have to draw the line of silent acceptance somewhere, and it would seem that line includes lycanthropy.

"What the hell," she says to the beast that used to be Vilkas," is going on here?"

" _We_ should be asking that!" He snarls, his fangs tainted with blood. "Did you follow us here? So you're with the Silver Hand then. I knew you couldn't be trusted."

The Silver Hand, the werewolves hunters? It would seem Vilkas and Farkas' condition isn't unique to them then. Because the Companions are werewolves. The _Companions_ are _werewolves_ , they are hiding in plain sight under the jarl's eyes, and no one noticed.

"My apologies for coming along without asking," the Dragonborn says, which is a very delicate way to call their stalkering. "I felt guilty to abandon mister Farkas on his mission, so I figured I might check up on you, just to be sure. I didn't mean to upset you."

"Upset? UPSET?" Vilkas roars. "You goddamn moron! You know about us now! There is no way we can let you go on your merry way and risk putting us all in danger!"

Under all the fur and the fury, Farkas looks visibly uncomfortable with the direction the conversation is taking. Lydia grasps her sword tightly. The situation isn't looking good. Vilkas and Farkas were dangerous enough on their own before they grew claws and teeth. She doubts she can defeat them both, especially in such closed space.

Meanwhile, the Dragonborn kneels to clean their blade on the Silver Hand body's tunic. They seem perfectly at ease to be trapped in a tomb with two mad werewolves. "There is no need for threats, mister Vilkas. I have known about your… arrangement with Hircine for a while now, and I never said anything before. There is no reason I would start now."

"Ah!" Vilkas barks out. "Convenient isn't it? Why should we believe you?"

The Dragonborn smiles placidly. "Because you already know it's the truth. You wouldn't bother to argue otherwise."

"Brother," Farkas blurts out suddenly, "I can't smell them at all… They usually smell weird. Like plants, potions and underneath, a… patchwork of different scents that shouldn't go together, but somehow do."

"I'm unsure what to do with that information," they say," but thank you for the compliment."

Vilkas wrinkles his nose at the reminder, and he takes a step back. "Yeah, I know. I remember that stink. You used a potion to hide your scent. You did know all along."

Farkas hums questioningly. "But you don't want to become a werewolf. Do you?"

Lydia freezes at the idea. She doesn't know how she'll deal with it if the answer is yes. The world isn't ready for a werewolf Dragonborn. It's barely holding on against the mere existence of a regular one.

"I certainly do _not_ ," the Dragonborn assures them all. "No offense meant."

"Why indulge Kodlak then?" Vilkas growls as he petulantly kicks the corpse of a Silver Hand's man. "You can't want that goddamn daedra heart that much."

They very much can, Lydia snorts to herself. Clearly Vilkas doesn't know the Dragonborn well enough. He can't begin to imagine the extremes they'll go in order to get rare ingredients or help complete strangers. They value their own life too lightly and it's up to Lydia to make sure they do keep it at the end of the day.

"I do want that daedra heart that much, actually," they say. "And, from a personal perspective, I find your Harbinger's plight sympathetic. That is all. I'm afraid I do not have other explanations to give you. I'm simply a curious person."

That's unfortunately true. If duty is bound to be Lydia's doom, then curiosity will be theirs.

Vilkas hates this situation, she knows. It shows like a snout in the middle of the face. After all, he's also a creature of duty, though a different sort than Lydia's. His is a wild beast who will not hesitate to scheme, threaten and murder for the sake of his family. His knows very little bounds when poked at. It must take all of his self-control not to kill them, just to be safe.

If Farkas wasn't there, Lydia can only wonder how this confrontation would have gone.

"Fine," Vilkas eventually concedes. "What about her then?"

He stares at Lydia. Lydia stares back, unflinching.

"What about Sir Lydia?" the Dragonborn pips in a deceptively innocent tone. "If you wish to hire her as your housecarl, I'm afraid you'll have to reconsider. I got there first, and I'm dreadfully attached to her. In truth, I'll be quite lost without her! It's sad I know, but you'll have to find another of your own!"

"Y-you!" Vilkas sputters, rendered temporarily wordless by pure, undaltered anger. The effect was tragically short. "Nevermind, I'll murder you right now and be done with it-"

"Thane's secrets are housecarl's secrets," Farkas cuts in, surprisingly insightful. "If Giant's Toe doesn't talk, she won't either. Let's go, brother. Those Silver Hand assholes won't kill themselves."

Vilkas doesn't so much walk away as he is dragged kicking and screaming out of the room by his twin. The Dragonborn cheerfully waves at them, once again putting their lack of survival instincts to good use.

"Well," they perk up. "That went well enough, didn't it?"

Lydia resists the urge to facepalm or break something thanks to years of teaching untrained recruits into behaving.

.  
.

"Dragonborn."

The word echoes under Dragonreach's Great Hall, the frame of it bigger than a title, greater than a legend, louder than the shouts the Dragonborn never lets out of their throat.

The Dragonborn doesn't have another name than this. Before Lydia decided to buy the house, they didn't have a home. As far as Lydia knows, they don't have a past, or a family. It's like they simply… sprout out from nowhere when the dragons did.

They are the Dragonborn, and nothing more.

Except they are much, much more than that.

"Greetings, my lord," they say, "You asked for me?"

"Yes, I have, thank you for coming," the jarl drawls out, seemingly stuck between amusement and annoyance. "You have been busy, Dragonborn. In six months, you have managed to clear every fort, cave and campement in the vicinity. My guards hardly have any work to do anymore. You've also saved the Gildergreen-

"Oh, priestess Danica did the hard work, I merely retrieved the items she needed to succeed in her noble endeavor."

"-bought a house-"

"Actually, Sir Lydia is the one who pointed out having a permanent residence would be more convenient to stock my ingredients and sorted out everything with mister Avenicci."

"-and joined the Companions-"

"I didn't really _join_ the Companions though. It would be more accurate to say we have a mutual non aggression agreement and that they let me use their facilities sometimes."

"And yet. "The jarl's eye raises all the way up to his forehead. "You _still_ have to answer the Greybeards call."

The Dragonborn pauses. "Oh. The shouting people?"

"Yes," the jarl sighs. "The honorable priests who summoned you on High Hrothgar, and who are still waiting for you to show up."

"Truthfully, my lord, I completely forgot!" The Dragonborn says, sounding cheerfully unapologetic. "If it was really important, they would have called again, I assume? Yes? Well then, that's settled!"

"That's not how...wait! Dragonborn!"

Lydia bites back a smile, and follows along as her thane ignores the call of duty and keeps going their merry way.


End file.
